


Part of the Family

by 1800areyouslapping



Series: Commissions [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Chiyo is my OC, F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1800areyouslapping/pseuds/1800areyouslapping
Summary: A commission done for the lovely Gal Pals anon <3 You’re the best friend of the youngest Shimada. She wanted sister!reader so I gave what’s normally a reader a name, just for this fic, Chiyo. One night you run into her father, Sojiro. And then keep running into him. Curious. You’re starting to think he may like you.





	Part of the Family

Very few people can say they’re friends with a Shimada. Very few would even be able to boast about being general acquaintances with one. Though, not everyone wants to be associated with the name. Nor seek out friendship with a Shimada. Some even vehemently hate the name and would never want to be associated with it, or, would rather like to destroy it.

They’re unapproachable. They’re trouble. They’re dangerous. They’re drama. Have you heard the rumors? Have you seen the news? Yes, you have. On both fronts. And you couldn’t agree more with the public opinion. You by no means have rose-tinted glasses on. You know exactly what you’re walking into every time you pull up to the gate and wait patiently to be cleared for your entry.  

The snipers are aware of your presence. They see you from their perches, and you know this. It’s the same drill every time. Approach. Stand. Wait. It’s not as if they haven’t seen your face plenty of times before, but you’re still not allowed in unless Chiyo comes to the front gate to personally approve your entry onto the estate.

It used to offend you, it still truthfully does. You’ve never come here harboring any ill-will or any intentions to spy. You’ve only ever come here to be with your best friend. But like always you swallow your pride. You’re mature enough to understand that it’s nothing personal. They can never be too careful.

You look down at your phone. You texted her, oh, ten minutes ago? “What is keeping that girl?” you wonder out loud.

Semi-losing your patience, you’re going to text her again. But then the gate opens slightly to allow you to slip inside. Old wood groans, the Shimada emblem splits in half. Mindlessly, you slip through the opening. A breath away from asking her what kept her. You’re met not with the soft face of Chiyo, but with the hard, stern faces of her father and her brother, Hanzo. The last faces you were expecting to see. Your heart skips a beat. You stagger back on your heel. But recover quickly and say your greetings.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” You bow to Sojiro. “Hanzo.” And do the same for him. If they are ever consistently anything, it’s polite. They return your bows. Even if Hanzo exudes annoyance. You ask, “Where’s Chiyo?”

Sojiro stands with his hands behind his back like a soldier, chin held sturdy and level. “Very good question. A mystery of sorts.”

“No doubt slacking off with Genji.” Hanzo crosses his arms over his broad chest, his jaw grinds. “Wasting our time.”

Sojiro holds out a firm open palm to Hanzo. “We were heading out regardless.” He addresses you with a nod. “If it suits you, you can wait in the kitchen until my daughter decides to grace you with her presence.” Those words from the mouth of any other person would have come across as sarcasm. From him, however, there is sincerity behind the phrase.

Speaking of the Devil.

Chiyo appears from a hallway, running. Her skirt sways from side to side in tandem with her ponytail. That is until she notices her dad. She comes to a full, wide-eyed halt, and slows down to a shuffle as she joins the group. You, knowing her history are aware that running is highly frowned upon. But it was too late, Sojiro already saw it. “Chichi.” She’s breathless, breathing in heavily. “So, so sorry.”

Sojiro raises a brow and points up towards one of the snipers’ perches. “They were concerned. Any longer and they would have been inclined to shoot her.”

You smirk. Chiyo frowns. She looks at you and shakes her head. “He’s joking.”

“Am I?” Sojiro questions.

“Have you anything to say for your absence?” Hanzo asks.

Chiyo narrows her eyes at him. “Nothing worth hearing.” 

“Let’s not hear it then,” Sojiro interjects before Hanzo can come back with a nasty quip. “We have somewhere to be.” He reaches out and cradles her neck. He kisses a scar just above her eyebrow, then whispers in her ear. “No running, Chiyo.” Sojiro then slightly bows to you. “As always I hope you enjoy your stay here, I’m sure you ladies will have a good night.” 

With that, Sojiro and Hanzo make their way up the steps and start conversing with the snipers (you hope they’re being informed that you’re a regular, even if you didn’t take that comment to heart). Chiyo gives you the sweetest smile she can muster and a lovely squeezing hug to match it. Explains to you the reason behind what took her so long. She was in the midst of a heated competitive video game match. It had just started when you texted. They won!

“It was intense. I couldn’t text you, sorry.”

“That’s okay.” You knew the perfect way to get her back anyway. You look up at the two Shimada men in deep conversation. “Has anyone ever told you your dad’s a DILF?”

She gasps dramatically. “Stop it.” 

“Like high grade, premium cut, a luxury slice of DILF.” 

Her cheeks flush bright red. “Do you know how disrespectful it that is?” She giggles, a wide grin on her face. “Comparing  _my_ father to meat?”

“I said the best meat.” 

Still grinning from ear to ear she covers your mouth playfully. She leans in and whispers, “You’re so  _rude_.” She grabs ahold of your hand and starts pulling you along with her, distracts you with an inquiry. “Are you hungry? Chef Sana made bento boxes.”

If Chef Sana’s cooking, then you most definitely are. But she can’t distract you so easily. “Absolutely,” you croon.

Still feeling cheeky, you try to tease her a little more. She doesn’t notice. Takes your comment at face value. She’s too busy leading the way. Chattering about how Chef Sana makes the best bento boxes simply because she molds the food into cute animal shapes. “It’s art!” she exclaims.

You had looked back at her father as you gave your “answer.” Only to end up being embarrassed. He was looking at you. Watching you and his daughter joke around like a proud, powerful hawk up on his perch observing you and his baby bird. His facial expression was unreadable. Startled, you looked away quickly. 

“Hey, Chiyo?” you say.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Dumb question.”

“I’m sure,” she says with a giggle. 

“You Shimadas, you don’t have… heightened hearing, do you?” As soon as the sentence leaves your mouth, you’re hearing how ridiculous it is, but when you’re friends with a girl who can summon her own dragon and her whole family can too, maybe it’s not all that stupid. 

“What?” she says. “No. Why would you–” 

“I thought, maybe… dragon nonsense? I don’t know, forget I asked.” 

The Shimada estate is abnormally quiet, eerie at night. Compared to your city apartment where total silence doesn’t seem to exist. Normally you’d demand that Chiyo follow you to the kitchen when your thirst needs quenching. The vengeful ghosts and sadistic demons can’t get you with a friend at your side. Not to mention the night guards don’t feel the need to stare you down like predators scouting out a lone gazelle.  

Tonight, you trek to the kitchen without her. Too proud and stubborn to let a few superstitions or cold stares get in the way of your comfort. Chiyo knocked out during the movie you picked out (it was your turn tonight) and was far too cute to wake. You tucked her in. Left her to peacefully slumber. Quietly tiptoed out of her room and went on your way.

You’re not completely alone, however. Chiyo’s dragon, in its smaller cat-like form, trots behind you. It’s baffling that the dragon doesn’t fade the moment she drifts off into sleep. You’ll never fully understand how the ancient dragons work, it’s not something you find yourself thinking on too often. It is what it is. You’ve learned to just… roll with the things that happen around here.

Regardless of understanding, you’re grateful the little asshole likes you enough to provide silent company. You’re a little proud, a little smug about it. You’ve seen the dragon shy away from Chiyo’s brothers before, on more than one occasion. People that by default or also its masters. It adores you. Even if it likes showing that adoration through nips at your heels. Inconsistent ones at that. You never know when another “love bite,” as Chiyo says, is coming.

At this time of night, the kitchen is normally dark. Void of life. Unusually still compared to its usual crowded nature during the day. But as you approach, soft light shines through the small crack at the bottom of the shōji, illuminates the translucent paper covering the framed wood.

Cautiously, you slide open the door. Ever since you opened a door revealing an interrogation you weren’t supposed to see, you’re hesitant when opening nearly every door, no matter how innocent the room might appear to be. Peaking your head in, just to take a gander, the dragon at your feet slithers past and bolts in before you can try to scold its actions. Not that the thing would have heeded your commands, regardless of how much authority you put behind them.

You stumble in after it. Trying and failing to grab ahold of its tail. The little weasel is far too elusive and speedy. You didn’t stand a chance. When you finally come to realize just who it is that’s giving purpose to the light in the kitchen, you curse the thing for making you look like a silly girl in front of the Shimada kumicho.

You looked up in time to see the hyper dragon skittering up Sojiro’s bare calf. It snaked up and disappeared up into the leader’s yukata. Reappeared out of his collar not a few moments later. Curled around his neck. Settled so comfortably it looked as if it turned into lavender colored stone. Now an odd, decorative, arguably fashionable, wearable statue.

Sojiro doesn’t blink an eye at the thing. “Perfect timing,” he says after sparing you a glance. “I make it rule not to drink alone.”

“I don’t follow, Sir.” 

“Here I was with a craving for sake, but no one to drink with.” He opens a sleek, dark wood cabinet door and takes out an ornate, expensive box that you’ve most  _definitely_  never seen before. That’s not a box that Chiyo has removed from its rightful place, and not in order to let you and her have a taste. 

“I was afraid I’d be going to bed unsatisfied.” With the bottle and two dainty, white cups in his grasp (that were suspiciously already out), Sojiro nods towards the small dining space. “Please, join me.”

You’d only made your journey through the haunted halls in hopes to quench your thirst with water. But that wasn’t much of a request. He said please. But not a single bit of inflection was present that made it seem as if he was asking a question. You’re not sure why, but you’re searching your mind for an excuse to decline him. Can’t come up with anything, then question why you’re trying to get out of it in the first place. You can handle a little cordial bonding with a yakuza boss.  

Sojiro appears to be a different man from the one you normally see in passing’s by. Always on his way to a meeting or making an appearance worthy of making an unforgettable impression, this would be the first time you’ve ever seen him out of a perfectly tailored suite. Or… alone for that matter. Now he… dare you even think it? Looks humble, comfortable. Wearing only a simple blue cotton yukata. Long dark brown, nearly black hair pulled back into a bun that is imperfect. 

Sojiro sits down at a low-leveled table, you sit down opposite of him. Self-conscious of your robe, you pull it tighter around your chest. Tuck some fabric between your legs to keep yourself from panty-flashing the man. If you had known you’d be joining the leader of an ancient and powerful empire, you’d have been mindful enough to wear a little more clothes. As it is, you must make do. You’ll try your best not to accidentally offend him or embarrass yourself.  

Slow and careful, he pours the sake and gingerly offers you the cup. You take it with a quiet thank you and place it down on the mat. Proper etiquette states it is polite for you to pour Sojiro’s cup. With two somewhat shaky, clammy hands and exaggerated precision you take the bottle. It may be dramatic, and you’re well aware, but you’d die if you dropped it. That single bottle of sake is worth more than your rent and some change. Successfully and managing to muster up some grace while you’re at it, you pour his liquor. And place the sleek bottle down with a relieved sigh. No butterfingers, not today. 

Sojiro, unlike you, pays no mind to the loose folds of his yukata. It crept open as he leaned forward. Revealed a powerful chest, intricate greyscale tattoos running from his pecs down the lengths of his muscled arms, and a chiseled neckline that leads up into a salt and pepper beard. A beard that covers a powerful jaw, and a sharp chin. It seems when he leisure’s, he really leisure’s.

He raises his cup. “ _Kanpai._ ”

You raise yours and gently clink it against his. “ _Kanpai._ ”

As you bring the cup to your lips and sip you both catch each other watching the other drink. He has no shame, so you choose not to have any either. You may not have the weight of an entire empire fulling your ego, but you’ve still got a strong backbone.

“Your thoughts?” he asks. 

Oh. You forgot to react. The sake is just as rich, full of body, and as intense as you remembered it to be the first time you tasted it. Sojiro raises an eyebrow when you hesitate to answer, a knowing smile inching across his face. “This is not your first taste, is it?”

“Ah.” You don’t mean to tattle but you’ve been read and don’t like how childish trying to lie feels. Especially not to a man of Sojiro’s stature who is infamous for being miles ahead of even the most cunning and ruthless competitors. “Yes, I have. I was only snuck a little though.” You giggle nervously, staring at the clear rippling liquid. Nervous and unable to keep yourself from oversharing. “Chiyo wanted to nab the whole bottle but I drew the line there.”

“Pleased to know you can be trusted to keep her from crossing lines,” he says. “There’s quite the difference between casual adolescent rebellion, and blatant defiance.”

“Like the difference between sneaking a cup of two-thousand-dollar sake, and stealing the whole bottle?” 

“Yes,” he says. “One is easily forgivable, the other isn’t.”

You agree for the sake of agreeing and the conversation shifts onto other more fun, more mentality intriguing subjects that garner a littleless tension.

Many experts, scientists, and doctors alike would insist from their research, their tests, all of their trial and error that all alcohol has the same effects. You’d ask these “experts” the question: have they ever been poured cup after cup of high grade, fine, once in a lifetime sake such as this? Out of all the times you’ve gotten drunk, it never felt as pleasing as this. Airy, giddy. Your skin hums and you feel comfortable enough to not bother with closing your robe so tightly anymore. You may be giggling at things said, that wasn’t meant to be funny.

Unknown to you, your robe slides down your shoulder. Exposes a silk half-camisole covered breast. One moment Sojiro was seated in front of you, awaiting your silence, the next he’s looming over you. How long had your eyes been closed out of laughter? It felt like just a moment.  

He offers you a hand. One that looks like it was sculpted from marble, attached to a taut and veiny arm. You take it. He helps you onto your feet, readjusts your robe. His fingers lightly skim over your clavicle. Hairs stand up on the back of your neck, goosebumps pepper your skin.

“It’s time we retired,” he says.

“Yes,” you agree, with an overly agreeing nod and a not-so-subtle tightening of your robe’s sash.  

The dragon who hadn’t moved a single inch (at least not to your knowledge), is carefully removed from his neck. The thing acts like a rag doll in his hands. It remains asleep as he drapes it around your neck like a small, warm scarf. 

“Thank you for indulging me.” He bows slightly, holding your eye contact in his grasp. “Good night.” 

You carried back with you a strange feeling. A sort of... guilt over having drinks with your best friend’s father. But brushed the guilt aside the moment your head hit the pillow. You wondered to yourself before you fell heavy into slumber: could the dragon tell on you? You grumbled to it before passing out, “Please don’t.”

When the morning came and the alcohol wasn’t pulling your strings anymore, you still didn’t come to your senses. You kept your abnormal night to yourself-- fairly out of character for you. What is there to be ashamed of? What was there for Chiyo to be upset about? You would end up keeping more of those late nights from her. Digging your hole deeper and deeper with each one. What was surely a once in a blue moon occurrence, happens again and again. If you’re truly being honest with yourself, you’ve become aware of the routine. Sojiro could be avoided. You could dodge him, but you don’t.  

Each time you head to the kitchen for “water” you intentionally try not to bring Chiyo along. Sojiro’s almost always in there with his amazing bottle of sake, or something more soothing and refreshing like loose leaf tea. Once Sojiro made hot chocolate infused with green tea that surprised you with its light not-too-sweet taste. It filled your senses with cocoa and the accent of green tea was a nice touch. To think you had crinkled your nose at the idea (behind his back, of course).

The guards at the front gate abruptly stopped requiring an escort for your entry. To Chiyo’s great confusion, not that she wasn’t grateful. Later that night you’d ask Sojiro if he had anything to do with it. He stated that he felt you might be more inclined to come over if you didn’t receive the fourth degree every time you approached. He desires for you to feel more at home. Home doesn’t come with an occasional pat down or assassins questioning your presence.

You knew it might not be the smartest thing, questioning why he felt that way. It occurred to you that Sojiro might be the kind of man to take back his generous decision if it’s questioned. But you just had to know,  _why?_

Sojiro made idle comments on Chiyo's mother’s early passing. Admitted to his intense observation of your friendship with Chiyo. If it hadn’t been for you, she very well would have stumbled down the same tumultuous path her brother Genji has. Joked, somewhat, truthfully you couldn’t tell, that you might even have the ability to coax Genji back into a more discreet life.

“My daughter’s grown up without a suitable female role model,” he said. “She’s wanted one, needed one. You have proven yourself in that regard, amongst others. I believe that deserves special entry.”

You were deeply touched. All of that coming from a man who previously only spoke to you when communication was needed? Well. Receiving compliments, the admission that he trusted you with his youngest was so heartwarming you teared up. Confessed that you lost your own parents young. It was healing, feeling as if you were making your way back into a new one.

It’s moments like those that you find yourself lost in while at work. You have several jobs but your bartending one is by far the easiest one to check out of and still be able to do your job correctly. Many would argue that making drinks is an art. Sure. But working at a strip club where the drink is more than likely to be dumped on one or more of the dancers negates the need for perfection.

Your shift ends at two. Two am that is. It’s one fifty, the club’s rowdy. Crowded. Lots of hooting, yelling and catcalling. None of its anything you’ve never heard before. Nothing you pay much mind to, it’s easy to tune it all out. Except…

“Waitress! Heh?! Waitress! Hold up, I’m not done ordering!”

The drunk young man immediately has your attention. He’s yelling loud enough to be heard over all the noise the groups of patrons are providing and the booming music. You look over in time to see your coworker roll her eyes, hard. And ignores the heckling man. She tries to walk away with a deep frown on her face, but the young man reaches out and grabs ahold of her wrist. He yanks roughly. She drops her tray. Several half-empty glasses shatter all over the floor.  

The atmosphere shifts dramatically from good sinful fun, to several people being on high alert. Falling silent, turning and watching. Not that that means anyone is coming to the poor women’s rescue.  

“I said I wasn’t finished!” the man yells at her.

She demands that he let her go and he tugs her even harder. Yanks her down to his level and whispers something in her face that warrants a slap across his cheek. She even spits in his face and shouts, “Fuck you!” 

Your stomach lurches. There’s violence in his eyes, a spring coiled tight in his chest. Where the hell is the bouncer? You search for him as you sprint out from behind the counter. Remember as you close in on the scene that Sho is working tonight. Sho, the alcoholic who doesn’t give a flying fuck about his job. Sho, who’d been stealing drinks from behind the bar from the very moment he showed up for his shift. A lot of good Sho is. 

“Hey, hey.” You place a gentle hand on the man’s wrist. “How about I finish taking your order?” You look at your co-worker and say, “Go take a break.” 

“Don’t put your hand on me, woman!” The young man painfully swats your hand away. “You spit on me, bitch?!” He points to himself dramatically looking like a pissed off mafia man out of a movie. “I spit on you, bitch!” He hawks a disgustingly sized wad of spit, reels far back in his seat, and launches it at her.

She shrieks and stumbles back as it hits her chest. You grab her arm and turn her way towards the backrooms. “Go,” you insist. “Now, please. Clean up, I’ll take care of this.” She nods, whimpers a small thank you. She’s shaking and her bottom lip’s quivering. You hate to see it. If you had the time, you’d hug her. Assure her it’s just one bad night, you would. But the comfort will have to wait until after you’ve taken out the trash.

You step between her and the drunk man, hold your ground and your chin up high. “You’re done.” You point towards the exit. “It’s time to go.”  

The man scoffs. “ _You._  Are telling,  _me._  I’m done?!” He made the effort to gesture towards your body and then his own. As if you weren’t already acutely aware that’s he’s bigger and stronger than you. So like a young hot-headed jerk with an overly inflated ego. Once you’ve met one (and you’ve met plenty) you can peg them all at the drop of a hat.

“Yes, I’m telling you you’re done,” you say. “Either you leave or I’m calling the cops. If the cops show up they’re shutting this place down for the night.” You look around and gesture to the audience both you and he have. “Then you’ll have all these people looking to take out their ruined nights on you, you want that?” 

Suddenly rough knuckles connect harshly with your cheekbone. The man is in your face. Hot, stinky beer breath fills your nose. Your head spins. You almost vomit. “You’re not calling anyone.” He looks down at your shirt, your uniform. A black mesh shirt, short black shorts, and a black bra to match it all. “ _Slut._ ”

You’re running on autopilot now. Searing hot, heart racing rage and a wicked rush of adrenaline fuels the stomp on the man’s foot, and the mean knee in his crotch. You step back, several paces. Quickly put tables between you and him before he has the chance to retaliate. “If you wanna fight me you’re gonna have to follow me outside, asshole!” You whip around and bolt. Knowing full well that a predator can’t help chasing their prey. He’ll follow.

He turns out to be far drunker than you initially thought he was. A good thing. As it has him tripping over the ledge on his way out of the entrance. The young man stumbles into a puddle of water. It may be a hilarious sight, but you don’t laugh. The sound of your mocking might turn him into a raging bull. That’s the last thing you need right now. Instead, you take his momentary disorientation to pull out your phone and attempt to call the police.  

But the man’s own humiliation, the dirt on his face and nice clothes, the filthy water coating his hands careens him into steamrolling rage anyhow. He barrels towards you and knocks the phone out of your hand, it hits the concrete hard. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s dead and gone.

Your eyes flit to the doorway where two men were on their way out to help you. Your heart sinks when they change their mind and back up.  _What the hell?!_

“Protect the woman.” 

Suddenly the man is tripped, elbowed in the face, and hits the ground harder than your phone did. A man steps in front of you, and another drags the drunk man off. His eyes wide and horrified, kicking and yelling obesities in Japanese. Not all of them you understand, but you can catch some.

You know that voice, you recognize these suites. You’ve listened to that voice tell you stories for hours. (Stories about two dragon brothers who had a tragic falling out. About a boy who drifted into the earthen realm via a peach. About a man who rescued a lone turtle and was rewarded with a magical visit to meet a dragon god.) Yes, you know that voice well, but you still can’t believe that it’s coming from right behind you.

Your head feels dangerously light, so you carefully turn around. Sojiro walks up, face hard as stone, brown eyes darkening as they take in the state of your face. He puffs on his fancy cigar, billows of smoke wafting from his mouth. Sojiro walks through it and tosses the cigar into the puddle. “Are you alright?” he asks as he unbuttons his jacket.  

You nod even if that might not be the truth. Too confused to know whether or not you truly are okay. “Where you following me?” you ask him.

He shakes his head. “Picking you up,” he explains. “Chiyo informed me you were coming over, taking the bus is dangerous so late at night. I was in the neighborhood.” He hands you his jacket, hanging on two fingers.

“Uh huh,” you say as you mindlessly take the jacket, unaware of why he handed it to you in the first place. It’s not cold. They must have just come from quite the shindig. Which would explain the three black cars full of Shimada clan soldiers. Enough of them to create a circle around you, a wall of bodies. Sojiro and the man who’s whimpering with a knife held against this jugular. He’s white as a sheet, staring at Sojiro as if he is death himself. To him, he might as well be. 

Sojiro stands before the man, looming over him with piercing scrutinizing eyes. “Explain who you are,” he demands.

The man does. Fumbles over his words, stutters, and spits. The more the drunk fool babbles, the angrier Sojiro gets. The oyabun’s eyes darken more and more with every slurred word. The drunk fool’s name is Ken. He’s one of Sojiro’s very own chinpira (very low-ranking yakuza, given low ranked jobs and minimal pay-- Chiyo had one fetch ramen and ice cream for you both once).

“I… I… I just wanted to get your attention, Sir,” Ken stutters.

“Hmm,” Sojiro hums in understanding. He extends an open palm out to his side. One of his soldiers immediately responses by rushing to him, unsheathing the katana at his back, and gingerly places the grip in his hand. 

“Well. You now have my full attention. You’ve gravely embarrassed yourself, and me by association.” Sojiro swings the sword around, it whistles through the air, and stops just as it gets to his neck. “I require your life as compensation. Is my limelight everything you hoped it’d be?” 

Ken turns into a crying, begging child. In the face of his demise the young man trembles and pisses himself. What an awful, pointless thing to die for. You don’t want to see it happen. You’ll step up for the second time tonight. Your heart works your legs, takes over your vocal cords. “Wait! Please wait.” You step in front of Sojiro. In an instant you have his full attention, all of his anger and irritation honed on your swollen cheek.

“Step out of the way,” he demands.

“Hear me out,  _please_ ,” you beg. “Spare him. He’s young and stupid,  _drunk_. He must have been truly desperate to try and pull a dumb stunt like this.”

“You beg me to spare the scum who gave you this?” His fingers brush lightly over your flamed cheekbone. 

“Yes. Please.” You lean in closer to him. Hold his eye contact. “You’d be hurting me far more than you’d be defending my honor, I promise,” you whisper. “His death would way heavily on me. I can’t just brush that off like you can.” 

“Move,” Sojiro says, flat and unwavering.

One word has never carried so much weight. You step out of the way with heavy feet and a shattering heart. This just might ruin your relationship with not only him but Chiyo as well. You couldn’t deal with being the family friend of the Shimadas; the one who can’t be approached because a man was slaughtered for slighting her (so their ‘rumors’ would state). You’ll become just another one of those people giving warnings on the streets, in the bars, telling tales about how you should never fraternize with the clan. Had all your time spent with him meant nothing?

In two swift motions, Sojiro slices the man’s ear off and cuts his cheekbone. As the severed flesh hits the concrete he states, “That belongs to me now.” Blood wells. Floods down his face in a crimson wave. Pours from the side of his head. He grits his teeth and screams from behind them. “Now you are worse for wear than she is, and you’ll have something to remember her immense generosity by.” Sojiro hands the sword back to the man who gave it to him with a sigh. “Now grovel, apologize, and thank her for being so kind.”

Ken immediately lowers himself all the way to the ground. Chest to the floor, hand cupped over his wound. He apologizes over and over. Says thank you for saving his lowly life just as many times. You’re horrified but so relieved that he’s permitted to live that tears come to your eyes. The whole time Ken is groveling you’re not even looking at him. You’re looking at Sojiro. Baffled that the literal leader of a criminal empire respected your wishes. The ear is… one hell of a compromise. But at least he was willing to come to one. 

You tell Ken to stop. Get his ass back in that bar, pay his bill, and tip his damn waitress. Go to the hospital. Just... go. The wall of bodies breaks apart, all but one retreating to their assigned car. Sojiro escorts you to his own. “Wait… my stuff,” you say.

“I’ll have someone fetch it for you.” Sojiro nods to the man opening his door for him and he follows the instruction without any further words. 

Once in the vehicle, you realize to your horror that your already revealing mesh shirt was torn open sometime during your scuffle with Ken.  _That’s_  why Sojiro offered you his jacket. While you’re hard focused on buttoning up it up, Sojiro’s rummaging through a compartment. You gasp more from the sudden grip on the back of your neck than the cold cloth-covered ice placed and held carefully against your cheekbone.

He’s so very close. Closer than he was when you were pleading for Ken’s life and now that you’ve got nothing else distracting you, it’s overwhelming. He smells damn good, he looks damn good in his cool grey dress shirt and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Never in your wildest dreams would you imagined ending up here sharing the same air as this man.

He squeezes the tense muscle in your neck. “Are you sure you’re well?” His breath wafts across your lips, your heart skips a beat or two. You nod lazily. He continues to squeeze, working the tension out of the stressed muscle. You can’t help the groan that escapes your lips. Your body tingles, a shiver runs through your spine. He has a strong, skilled hand. “I suppose a visit to the hospital would be excessive then.” His voice so low it has added gravel to it.

He hovers there, close to your face. Kneading. Noses brushing, breathing in each other’s air for the entire ride (ten minutes at the most). Alarm bells ring off in your head. He’s romantically interested in you. Far more interested that what you had previously believed. 

You thought, well, you’re not sure what you thought anymore. You thought he was being nice? Polite? You thought he was scoping out the girl who’s closest to his daughter? Just to ensure your intentions were pure, that you weren’t leading her down the wrong path. But now? Now it’s blatantly clear. Your best friend’s father  _likes_  you. Likes you enough to scar a man for life. But no, that’s not even the whole truth. He likes you enough to  _kill_  a man.

 You’re in an internal argument with yourself. Your sound rational mind against your raging hormones. The beckoning fire in your crotch that whispers, “ _To hell with it._ ” Your 'chance' encounters with Sojiro had always left you exhilarated. Mentally stimulated like no other man has ever been able to accomplish. But exhilarated much in the way that standing two inches away from a speeding hypertrain would do the same. It’s dangerous. It’s exciting. Even beautiful to watch fly by at such close range. But a terrible, awful idea. 

Yet, he leans in just so. Kisses you once, testing. With a deep, heart fluttering desire you desperately wish he’d do it again.


End file.
